12 Inches (Size Matters 1)

All without a second glance in my direction. I’m lying there like some unwanted sex doll.

Fuck. This was all a waste. My entire marriage is a waste. My life is a waste.

But before you go telling me to cheer up, babe, let me just clue you in on why I even did all this. Why I went to La Perla. Why I basically tried to initiate this whole intimate encounter.

Had Michael succumbed, it would have been the first time in our marriage that we had actually had sex. That our relationship would have been consummated.

See, it wasn’t bad enough that I was forced into this marriage. What’s worse is that for the last six months, ever since we’ve been married, I don’t think Michael Anders has touched me once in private. Never a kiss unless it's in front of the camera. Never a stare of desire when we’re alone.

Some couples have their whole relationships based around sex.

Ours revolves around a lie.

Michael stops at the edge of the door right before walking out. Without turning to me, he speaks to me.

“By the way,” he says coldly. “Lance has gone and gotten himself fired from the job I arranged for him at the White House. So he’s coming over to stay the summer with us. I think I want to use him for the re-election campaign.”

I’ve never met Lance. Michael has mentioned him maybe once. When we were getting married and signing the papers. And today. So I guess that’s twice.

“I trust that you’ll act appropriately around him,” Michael says. “We can’t have any surprises like what you tried to pull tonight happening while he’s here.”

And almost as an afterthought, as he leaves, he adds, “I’ll be having dinner in my office. Don’t wait up.”

And with that he’s gone.

Leaving me near naked and horny in my gilded cage.

Remember when I told you I wasn’t stuck up about being told I was beautiful? You probably didn't believe me all the way. Well, this is why I don’t let my beauty go to my head.

30

Lance

Coming home isn’t supposed to be such a fucking miserable experience, but that’s what you get when you’re fired after fucking the President’s daughter and risking WW III. I’m lucky I’m not in a fucking Guantanamo cell right now, so I guess it’s not that fair of me to complain.

But still, can you fucking blame me? I’ve never been close with my father, and I haven’t even met my new stepmother. Especially after having to read in the newspaper that my father fucking remarried. He couldn’t even pick up the fucking phone to let me know. So, yeah, I’m fucking sorry if I’m not overly excited with the prospect of being around two people who are only family on paper till November comes around. I mean, they’re probably only husband and wife on paper as well. My father isn’t exactly someone who cares about women, if you know what I mean. Knowing him as I do, he probably arranged the whole fucking thing as another power move. For ol’ Michael Anders, everyone around him is nothing more than a fucking pawn to be moved across a chessboard. I actually feel sorry for the poor woman he pulled into that fucking arrangement.

“You can drop me off here,” I tell the cab driver as the silhouette of the townhouse I grew up in emerges at the end of street. I give him a folded fifty-dollar bill and leave the car, carrying just a backpack over my shoulder. I never liked to move around carrying bulky suitcases. Besides, this is fucking New York City. What I don’t have, I can just fucking get.

I walk toward the building and take a deep breath before going up the stairs that lead to the entrance. Balling my hand into a fist, I rap my knuckles against the door, cursing the day I decided to leave my own set of keys in my old bedroom. If no one’s home, I’ll have to wait here as if I were a lost pup.

If you’re from New York, then I bet you’re going to roll your eyes right now. Because you’re gonna ask yourself why I’m not pulling up to Gracie Mansion, where the Mayor of the City traditionally lives.

Well, I got news for you. My dad is so fucking wealthy that he made it a campaign pledge to not move in. Instead, he brought the fucking mansion staff to his own townhouse - which is still located in the Upper East Side in Yorkville.

Yeah, that’s the kind of asshole my Dad is.

Look…I’m sorry if I sound fucking pissy, okay? You don’t know what its like having to come back with my tail tucked behind my legs. Back to a man who never fucking cared about me in my entire fucking life.

I almost wonder whether I’d want no one to be home.

Luckily, the sounds of footsteps on the other side of the door reach me and the door swings open a few seconds after.

“Lance, right?” a beautiful woman asks me, politely smiling. She looks radiant, in a pair of skinny jeans and a blue silk blouse that’s tucked in. She’s roughly five feet and seven inches, a slender beauty, but she has the most toned legs I have ever seen. They lead up to a sumptuous looking heart-shaped ass that’s framed exquisitely in her jeans and a small tapered waist. Her slender and flat tummy yields the most impressive set of tits that I have ever beheld; these giant breasts are struggling against her blouse and ar

e easily D cups. They don’t sag, and don’t detract from her figure. Even her neck is elegant, long, and smooth. She has a cute face with a pair of luscious lips, slutty eyes, and hair that comes to her shoulders. In two short words: fucking beautiful.

“Yeah… That’s me,” I manage to say rather dumbfounded. “Jocelyn?” I ask, feeling like a complete fucking idiot now that she’s in front of me: I never even bothered to look at a photo of her before coming back home. To be honest, I didn’t do it because… Well, because I didn’t expect my stepmother to be this fucking hot. I just knew based on what my Dad cared about that it was probably some political fake marriage. I knew her name was Jocelyn, and that she was a thirty-something woman from New York, but I had no idea that she looked like a fucking goddess.